It's on days like today that I wonder how this country ever managed to pull its head out of its ass and become the world power that it once was. I was trying to do the most simple of tasks, open a bank account. But as I've discovered on this trip, it's the simplest things one does back home that are the hardest things to do when abroad. So far I've spared my blog the three week long dilemma of where to purchase a bucket. Apparently, it would be too helpful to sell buckets in supermarkets, like in Australia, so one must trundle from store to store in the hope of finding a bucket for sale. Meanwhile my wooden floors got murkier, while I agreed more and more with Paul Jones' observation that Australian supermarkets are quite amazing, simply for the variety of items they sell. The story of today's disaster, the bank account, actually begins yesterday. But to serve the chronology of things and in the interest of telling short stories in the longest possible way, I'll begin last week.
At the risk of sounding over-confident, I had a feeling that the law firm job would come through, from the moment the recruitment agent responded to my original e-mail. As previously noted, that he responded was a good sign already. So around and after the time of my interview, I tried to fit in the odds and ends remaining on my to-do list.
The Museum of London was built in the early 1970s, and is the world's largest museum devoted to a single city. It's located in the City of London, on London Wall, a road that follows the original line of the Roman fortification around ancient London. Which is not hard to tell, given its absurd winding course, and absurd mad street numbering (sequentially up one side, then sequentially down the other). Around the City, there are open pits exposing the few remaining fragments of the wall, which I photographed and will post pictures of soon as I get a chance.
The museum's exhibits are being overhauled to be more interactive, but I did get to see the "London before London", "Roman London" and "Victorian London" exhibits. London has a 2000 year history, which pales in comparison to the history multi-millienia history of places like Rome or Athens where thje antiquities flow like wine. But I think it's the Brits' obsession with history and archaeology (the very tradition that built the British Museum) that has ensured that newly-discovered old things are appropriately documented, put into safe-keeping, and summarised with photographs and diagrams in museums such as the MoL. So while there is no Parthenon or Colliseum, there is tremendous respect for even the smallest of discoveries. Bits of the London Wall were exposed during the blitz. Roman terazzo floors were discovered during the construction of a new office block. In similar circumstances were revealed the ancient wooden foundations of London Bridge, quite a distance from the river bank as the Thames has never been narrower than it is today. And the museum is quick to point out that for almost as long as London has existed, thre has been a bridge within twenty metres of the current London Bridge.
The Victorian London exibition was very interesting, given the size of the Empire at that time, and how England was leading the world with technology. Naturally, a lot of exhibition space is devoted to Queen Victoria (such a pretty young thing, such an ugly old woman). Interactive consoles allowed me to view captivating film footage of Victoria at her Jubilee, as well as other early footage of Victorian London filmed by the Lumiere and Edison companies.
Over the weekend I did very little, trying to nurse myself back into health after a cold and a helluva-weekend the weekend before. My only non-domestic outing was to see Downfall at the Prince Charles Cinema, a repertory cinema just north of Leicester Square. Downfall relates the story of the last two weeks of life within the Fuhrerbunker in downtown, shell-shocked Berlin, as witnessed by his secretary who survived and wrote the book on which the film is based. Downfall attracted attention as the first German film to represent Hitler, and was criticised for humanising the dictator. I think those critics are on drugs, because I can't imagine a more balanced representation of Hitler's final hours. While there are moments of humanity towards his underlings, which are to be expected given that he was human, he comes off no better than the mad, obsessed, manipulative tyrant that history portrays. It's not a short film, but I really enjoyed it. Maybe 4.5 kerbies out of 5.
This week, knowing that I had the job, I decided to wrap up a few personal tasks such as open a bank account and sort out the National Insurance nonsense, as well as a couple of sightseeing things. Yesterday morning was spent at the offices of the contracting umbrella company who will manage my employment. This is a separate company to the law firm where I will actually work, and the recruitment agency who got me the job. The purpose of the umbrella company is to manage my employment as a PAYE salary earner. For providing the service, they take a cut of my precious hourly rate, as do the recruitment agency. What is left is divided between the government and me, and barely in my favour at that.
Just before leaving the umbrella company's offices, they prepared for me a letter which confirms my employment, my personal details, and requests the bank to open an account in my name. This letter was addressed to the Fenchurch Street branch of the HSBC, the very branch used by the umbrella company for its own accounts. By using the same branch, the whole process is supposed to be significantly easier. To those who have been spared the heartache, it is painfully difficult to open a bank account in the UK.
So I walked down to Fenchurch Street, where I delivered the letter to the reception clerk, a smarmy individual who seemed to misunderstand on which side of the desk he stood. He asked me, outright, whether I had a visa to work in the UK. I produced my Greek passport, and explained (as I often have to) that, by virtue of dual citizenship, I am entitled to live and work anywhere within Europe. England's xenophobia bears its ugly face around this time, when the other person says something like "oh yeah, Greece recently joined". Gritting my teeth, I explain that Greece has been a member almost as long as the UK. It must bug modern Britons to discover that France was a founding member of the EU's predecessor, some twenty-one years before the UK joined.
Having leaped the hurdle of my entitlement to work, we move on to the next battle. It was explained to me, in oh so condescending terms, that HSBC subscribes to the Banking Code, an industry standard setting very strict minimum standards on who may open a UK bank account. In short, passport identification is not sufficient (as it would be in Australia). And a letter from my employer is not usually sufficient. My umbrella company had clued me in to this fact, as other contractors have been knocked back for something as simple as a generic letter confirming employment (ie not addressed to HSBC). The clerk said he would phone me back later in the day after having spoken with the person in charge of opening accounts. Naïve to the nonsense playing out before me, I figured all was in hand, and so I decided to go sightseeing.
I headed to the tube station marked as King's Cross St Pancras. London is dotted with the huge Victorian-era train stations that have inspired a thousand tales. Paddington Bear comes to mind, named for the station where he was found. And then there is the inordinate wins and losses manipulated by strategically navigating the Monopoly board. One such station, King's Cross is located right next to the St Pancras mainline (read: above-ground) station. They share a common tube station. King's Cross still provides mainline services, but St Pancras is in the throes of renovation, readying itself to become London's new Eurostar terminus. With all it's Victorian Gothic glory, it will be a far more beautiful station than the present terminus at Waterloo.
But I digress. The reason for my trip to the area was to visit the British Library, now resident next to St Pancras station in its purpose-built new home, opened in 1998. The library was originally the British Museum Library, and created when George IV presented to the museum the personal library belonging to his father, George III. The only condition was that the books from the original endowment must be kept separate, in perpetuity, from any future collections and acquisitions. While the library's exterior is much-maligned (contemporarily bland), it's interior space is the very essence of spacious and clean design. The public areas are mostly white in colour, exaggerating the proportions of the space, but dominated by a central dark-coloured column rising perhaps five or six stories in the atrium. Known as the King's Tower, this library-within-a-library showcases George III's original collection. The book spines face outwards, on all four sides of the tower, drawing special attention to the building's purpose and history. The King's Tower is one of those architectural delights that is genius in its simplicity.
The Library is not open to the general public, and I wasn't in the mood to bluff a reading pass. But I did visit the galleries. There was a mildly interesting temporary exhibit on Hans Christian Anderson, a very interesting permanent exhibit on the history of movable type, and an outstanding permanent exhibit showcasing the library's treasures. Where else can one expect to see, in the one place, the Magna Carta (one of four surviving originals), the Lindisfarne Gospels, a treasure-laden binding of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khaiyam, the original hand-written copy of Alice in Wonderland, and the hand-written scrawl of Yesterday's lyrics, among many, many other fine objects. My favourite item is a letter written by Queen Elizabeth to parliament where she ran out of space, before deciding to turn the paper sideways and write in the margin... just as we do these days when we run out of space on notepaper! Its awkwardness tied in perfectly with a famous sequence in the 1998 biopic, Elizabeth, where Cate Blanchett, as the virgin queen, practises her coronation speech in front of a mirror.
Late in the day, I got a call from HSBC. They informed me that the letter I had was sufficient, and that I only needed my passports to open the account. If only it was to be that easy.
Which brings me to today, my last day of freedom. I decided to savour it by watching other people lose theirs, when I visited Bow Street Magistrate's Courts. Located opposite the Royal Opera House, and within spitting distance of my flat, this institution has a long and very important history. Here, in the 1820s, a magistrate formed the Bow Street Runners, which became the world's very first non-military police force. Later, the magistrate's courts were to play host to some of London's most important committal hearings. Oscar Wilde was brought here immediately following the collapse of his disastrous libel suit against the Marquess of Queensberry, which backfired and resulted in the author's prosecution for gross indecency. Still in use today, the alleged 21 July Bombers made their first court appearance here just some weeks ago. In movieland, Bow Street turns up in Hitchcock's Frenzy. Despite its history, the courts will soon close, explaining why I wanted to see them in action before I started work. The word around at the moment is that a foreign consortium will build a boutique hotel on the heritage-listed site.
I sidestepped the Ashes ticker-tape parade (anything to do with cricket bores me intensely) and headed for the umbrella company's offices. There I uploaded some photos to Flickr, and investigated how to register for my National Insurance number. Like a tax file number or social security number, the NI number is my passport to the riches afforded by this welfare state. I also need it for taxation purposes. But with a bureaucracy that could only make Sir Humphrey proud, I can expect to wait eight months for that magic number to be issued.
NI out of the way, I headed back to Fenchurch Street. I presented my passports and the letter, which were duly copied, and the bank clerk started to create the account. We got as far as entering my name. The clerk insisted upon using the spelling of my name as provided in my Greek passport. I explained that everything in my name uses the Australian spelling, and everything was to remain that way, excepting the Greek passport which is limited by an alternate character set. The clerk spoke with his manager, twice, but was determined in his resolve that I must use the Greek spelling because there is no visa in my Australian passport, and supplying copies of two passports will simply confuse the admistration staff in India. As strange as it sounds, I was told that a Chinese bank considers itself worthy of enforcing English immigration law, through its clerical staff based India. I posited a few different scenarios, all perfectly sound things like what if I hadn't supplied my E.U. passport, but each suggestion was knocked flat as the clerk scrambled to hide behind the Banking Code. After some time, the clerk offered his opinion of the importance of this code when I was informed that it exists to discourage money laundering and fraud. I countered by telling him that his insistence on using my Greek passport's spelling would create two sets of documents and cards, which while legal will easily be construed as fraudulent. He agreed with my logic but said he was helpless to help me, bound by this most-important Banking Code.
I gathered my documents, and left. After a quick phone call to Denise (also a dual Australian/Greek national) to confirm that her bank accounts are in the Australian name, I walked straight across the road to Barclays. There I waited twenty minutes to be served, begging the question of why I would want an account there, only to get the Banking Code stonewall once again. But something the clerk said made me realise that there was more to this Banking Code than represented. The Barclays clerk said I only need a passport and a utilities bill. I don't need a letter from my employer. How could there be a difference if the oh-so-important Banking Code was truly as rigorous as these underlings were telling me.
I rushed back to the umbrella company and asked for another letter confirming employment, but addressed to whom it may concern. I walked over the road to Lloyds, where I was promptly served by the most polite bank clerk. He looked at my Australian passport (I didn't offer the Greek one), the letter from my employer, and a bill from the local council. After the shortest amount of time, the clerk said everything was in order to open the account immediately. The only problem was that it was almost closing time, and he was about to go into an appointment, and no-one else was available at that branch to open an account. Just to state the obvious, I am trying to give them money and no-one is available to help me. But it didn't bother me, because by now I realised that the Banking Code was a meticulous wank imposed by pompous bank clerks, its interpretation entirely variable according to which bank and which clerk was attending to the matter.
I headed for the nearest Lloyds, which thankfully in a city the size of London was only a few hundred metres down the road. There I was informed that accounts can only be opened with an appointment - another branch-determined fabrication. But again, it didn't bother me. I was going to walk from bank to bank, branch to branch, until I settled the matter today. I walked out of Lloyds, looked twenty metres up the street, and saw another HSBC branch.
Now a part of me was adamant that I should not give HSBC my business because (i) the bank is staffed with idiots and (ii) they think nothing of outsourcing their call centre to India to save themselves a few measly pounds. But another part of me was curious enough to disprove the arrogant nonsene sprouted by the Fenchurch Street branch. So in I went.
The clerk seemed a little abrupt, but I steamed ahead. I presented my Australian passport, and the generic letter confirming my employment. She disappeared for more than five minutes, and came back with photocopies... And proceeded to open my bank account. I eventally did produce my bill for council taxes as secondary proof of my address, but that was all I needed. All my details were entered into the on-line system which verified my identification and checked my credit history, the latter being easy as I have no credit history in the United Kingdom. Without a single hitch, I walked out of there about 45 minutes later with a bank account (with the correct Australian spelling), a savings account with a £300 overdraft, a debit card, a credit card with a £1500 limit, and... wait for it... a mortgage certificate pre-approving me for a £150,000 loan. I actually said I didn't want a home loan as I've only just arrived and only started work, but out it printed. Everything signed, above board, and approved. And not once did the bank clerk ever utter those loathsome words: Banking Code.
My cards are only days away. Meanwhile I might look at real estate.
I celebrated with my last stint of pre-work sightseeing by taking a trip out to Canary Wharf. On the site of what once was the world's largest working port, now rises a steel and glass skyscraper city. It's the only part of London I have seen where everything, and I mean everything, is brand new. There was originally only one skyscraper, One Canada Square built as Europe's tallest. It's still the tallest in the UK, but it's just one of several skyscrapers in this satellite city. The dock's waterways still exist, and look exactly as they did in 28 Days Later and The World Is Not Enough, which were both filmed on location at the Docklands. I was tipped off by an Australian who lived here for a few years that if I ever felt homesick I should go to the shopping centre at Canary Wharf. I went, and Jane was right, as it's the most Australian-looking place I have seen on my entire trip. Actually, the more I think about it, Canary Wharf is England's commerce-focussed answer to the Gold Coast. New, clean, and slick, but unavoida
bly sterile.
Canary Wharf has a fantastic underground station, one of several keystone stations in the ever-upgrading system. The one thing missing from Canary Wharf is the multitude of beggars that work London streets. I'm not talking about the genuinely ill and disshevelled homeless people, of which there are a few, but the clean-shaven, well-spoken men and women that professionally work the London streets. What annoys me the most is that England is the original welfare state. I will be paying more than 20% of my hourly rate to fund National Insurance's variety of health, education, and social security programs... And that's on top of the normal income tax with a top rate of 40%!!! A few weeks ago I was bailed up outside a nightclub by a man asking for "a few pence". I emptied my pockets of the coins I had (amounting to a few measly pence) and gave it to the man. He looked down at what I had given him and objected to it. I had to explain that I was unemployed and paying for thin
gs with Aussie dollars just to get him to leave me alone! The next time someone queries my donation, I'm asking for my money back.
